Llane was torn. What Lothar said was true. They had, indeed, not been able to rely upon Medivh. But he looked so much better now. So much stronger, more like his old self. Obviously, whatever had been draining him had been addressed. And surely, Lothar could not forget how the Guardian had “magically saved their backsides” when the trolls had been a heartbeat away from taking the kingdom. Medivh had earned their trust in the past, and he had come through even recently, exhausted as he had been.
“Please, Anduin,” Llane began, “Medivh is the Guardian—”
But Anduin didn’t allow him to finish. “Not the one you remember! He’s lost it! He’s unstable! And he won’t be there when you really need him.”
Llane pressed his lips together tightly. He needed his commander at the top of his game more than ever before. Quickly, he strode to Lothar. “Find your bearings, Anduin.” His voice was firm and controlled, but brooked no disobedience.
Lothar’s eyes were wild, despairing, but full of concern. “I’d march into hell for you, Llane, if I felt there was even the slightest chance of victory! You know that! But this is suicide!”
“Is this about Callan?” Medivh’s voice was calm, with a trace of sorrow in it. Lothar’s face froze and his body went rigid. Slowly, he turned to look at the Guardian.
“It was a tragedy—”
Lothar’s face went ashen, and then he flushed. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
It had to be awful for both of them, Llane thought. Medivh had clearly been unwell, and his act of bringing down lightning to separate the warring parties had saved many lives, almost at the cost of his own. It had indeed been a tragedy that poor Callan had been caught on the wrong side of that defensive action. It would, Llane thought sadly, be only natural for Lothar to harbor resentment toward Medivh, perhaps even blame him entirely for Callan’s death. But there wasn’t time for this. There was barely time left for anything.
“If he hadn’t been trying so hard to win your approval, he might still be with us today,” Medivh said. Lothar was trembling violently. Sweat beaded his brow.
“Medivh—” Llane began.
“Callan wasn’t ready. You knew it, but you let him play soldier anyway.”
The words were unkind, and Llane opened his mouth to chide the Guardian, to ask him for an apology so they could focus on the dire situation at hand, but it was too late.
Lothar exploded, bellowing in incoherent rage, lunging for Medivh. Llane, Karos, all those assembled surged forward trying to break them apart. Medivh stepped back, his hands raised, defensive magic roiling in the palms of his hands, but he restrained himself—unlike Anduin—and did not loose the spell.
“Stop!” Llane commanded, shouting at the top of his voice. “Anduin—”
“You killed him!” Five men had the Lion of Azeroth now, and even they seemed to be having a hard time holding Lothar back as he struggled against them. His eyes were locked on Medivh, who maintained his composure despite Lothar’s almost rabid behavior. “My friend, are you?” Lothar snarled. “My good, old friend…”
Llane looked over at Medivh, who regarded him sadly. It killed him, but the king knew what he had to do.
“Varis,” Llane said, reluctance coloring his words, “Take Commander Lothar to a cell and let him calm down.” He swallowed hard. How had it come to this?
Varis hesitated, and Llane understood why all too well. This was Anduin Lothar. The Lion of Azeroth. Varis’s commander, who led by example and inspired respect. And yet, it seemed even heroes had breaking points.
Llane’s heart ached for his friend. But although he loved Anduin like a brother, the safety of the kingdom, always, had to come before Llane’s personal affections. Reluctantly, Llane said, “You are no use to us like this.” Lothar, to his credit, left under his own power, although the look he shot the Guardian of Azeroth was pure venom.
Medivh stepped beside the table, looking down at the map. He lifted the figurines that represented three legions and placed them in front of the small model of the Great Gate.
“We’ll save the kingdom, my lord,” Medivh reassured him. “You and I.”
Only a few days earlier, Lothar mused with a bitter humor, he had visited the Guardian Novitiate in a cell. Now, he was on the wrong side of the bars. How the world turns, he thought.
What had happened? Yes, of course he was still aching and hollow over the loss of his boy. Any father would be. And there was more to his pain. Guilt ate at him, and it had been that guilt that Medivh had played upon, goading Anduin to attack him. But in the name of the Light, why? Medivh was his friend—or he had thought so, anyway. And how had Llane not seen what the Guardian was doing?
He buried his face in his hands, wanting everything to go back to before he had ever met Khadgar, when Medivh was a part of his past and Callan a part of his present, when everything was normal. No, Lothar corrected himself. Not everything. He did not want to lose Garona.
He heard the key turn in the lock and the door swing open. Hoping against hope that Llane had changed his mind, Lothar looked up. But it was Garona who stood there, as if he had summoned her with his thoughts.
In the midst of all the white-hot pain and fear and despair of this moment, there was a place of calm warmth inside him as their eyes met.
“Why are you here?” he asked her.
She was an orc, to the point, and focused on fighting. “The king. He goes to fight the Horde. With your Guardian’s help, Durotan will kill Gul’dan.”
His stomach clenched. “Don’t trust him.” Garona frowned at him. “I have told you. Orcs do not lie.”
“Not Durotan.” Lothar rose and went to the bars of his cell as she strode toward him. “Don’t trust Medivh.” She looked at him, confused. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, to warn her about, but Varis waited at the door. He would not have long with her.
She did not need explanations. “I will try to protect your king,” was all she said.
Impulsively, he said, “Don’t go with them.”
“Why?” She stepped closer as he moved to the bars and gripped them. She placed her hand over his; warm, strong, comforting. She, who knew so much of pain, somehow understood gentleness better than anyone he had ever known.
He thought of last night, of her hands on him, and reached his own hand through the bar to caress her cheek.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, softly. Two decades since Callan’s birth. Since Cally’s death. And for the first time, her sweet, gentle face was not the one foremost in his thoughts—or his heart. It was stupid, it was reckless, it was unbelievable—and it was undeniably real.
Emotions flitted over her face. She reached to her slender throat, snapping the leather thong that encircled it. She held the pendant for a moment, then took his hand. He felt the tusk of her mother, warm from having nestled against her heart, settle in his palm. Garona folded his fingers tightly over the most precious thing she had to give.
“Come back alive,” Lothar whispered. He squeezed her hand tightly. I couldn’t bear it if this war takes you, too.
Garona nodded, but he knew what she meant by it. It was an acknowledgement of his words, not a surety. She was too honorable to make promises she could not keep. Instead, she lifted the concealing hood over her head, regarded him with those dark eyes, and went to war.
18
The humans could not take their terrified eyes off of Durotan. They peered at him through the bars of their own cages, doubtless wondering what he had done to warrant being imprisoned alongside them. Or perhaps they feared he was there to trick them and torture them more, somehow. Durotan regarded them sadly. He had tried to help, but his attempt had failed. He had failed, and now he was here, with his own fears regarding the cruel things with which Gul’dan’s orcs had threatened his clan.